


The Miserable Ones

by BrandyFromTheBottle



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Les Mis AU, M/M, Prison, Stangst, eventual stancest, mentions of whipping, more tags to come
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-04 17:43:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12776139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrandyFromTheBottle/pseuds/BrandyFromTheBottle
Summary: Stan doesn't mean to ruin everything; he just wanted the baby to stop coughing, to stop crying. He was gonna get to money back, he swears, but he never gets the chance when he is dragged to Toulon and he is set on a journey of justice, mercy, and family.A Les Mis AU in which Stan is Valjean and Ford is Javert.





	1. Convict

“Do you have any idea what you cost us?” Filbrick snarls, fist tight against the collar of Stan’s shirt and he can’t breathe.

“Filbrick, please.” Ma begs, but she’s trying to soothe the collicking baby--he’s been coughing and crying for days. Ford is still staring in numb hurt at Stan, standing in the corner, hiding his six fingers under each armpit like he did when they were children and Stan couldn’t defend them.

“I-I didn’t--!” Stan stammers and scrabbles at Filbrick’s hands, trying to loosen his hold just enough to let more than the tip of his toes touch the ground. He’s slammed against the wall hard enough to see stars.

“You ruined everything!” Filbrick hisses, too close and too big and Stan feels like a small boy again instead of the adult he is. “Couldn’t just ruin your own life, you had to drag us all down with you.” Stan shakes his head, trying to catch Ford’s gaze, trying to express his reason, his remorse, anything to make Filbrick stop. Stanford doesn’t move, doesn’t look up, just stares blankly out the one window they have. Stan is being dragged and pulled and shoved. Ma is trying to reason with Filbrick but the baby starts coughing in earnest, his little face red and wet with tears, and both her and Stanford crowd around to soothe him as Stan’s ass hits the filthy streets. “Unless you can repay what you cost us,” Filbrick growls. “You are no longer a Pines.” Then the door slams and Stan thinks of screaming his hurt and rage at his family, but, hell. He runs.

He’s caught by noon and his father refuses to recognize him as a son, but willingly takes the payment for reporting Stan’s whereabouts. Stan is caught between rage and a hurt so deep that he feels it in his soul.

Stan refuses to be sorry for trying to help his family, damn the method, but it still stings like salt on the gaping wound in his chest when Filbrick doesn't even let him see his Ma a last time. The baby is still coughing.

He is sentenced to five years for theft.

He's picked up by _La chaine_ like another piece of trash along the gutter. The chain around his neck chafes and the guy in front of him walks too fast and the guy behind him is shuffling and dragging his feet (Stan’s pretty sure he has a busted ankle, but no one cares so Stan doesn't, either.)

Stan’s still wearing the same clothes he ran in and they're stiff and filthy and Stan has never been very clean but he feels absolutely wretched. His collar is encrusted with sweat and his pant legs are stiff with mud and dust. His shoes, which have been his favorite since his feet stopped growing, are giving him blisters and then tearing them open again.

They pick up more poor souls along the way, _La chaine_ becoming a longer snake of misery, the guards on horseback growing more liberal with their truncheons. (They aren't picky about who they hit, one convict is very much like the other.)

They're marched over land, piled into a boat shipped down to Ares and then marched to the _Bagne_ of Toulon. Stan doesn't think theft is worth Toulon, but then he is shoved into a massive tub and told to clean up and his head is completely shorn. The bath seems pointless when they're all shoved into another boat and shipped to the _Bagne_.

 

Stan embarrasses himself when he screams getting the brand; TF, _travaux forcés_ , “hard labor.”

 

There is nothing to describe the _Bagne_ , especially if you’re a dumbass like Stan. But, if Stan would try:

It was like sleeping on wood boards and filthy men instead of beds and bedsheets. It was like eating the same bread and beans every day for years and years (because every _centimes_ was saved and sent home, though he never got a letter back). It was rationing his wine throughout the day--no more than he needs. Then, before sleep, chugging the whole thing. It isn’t enough to get him even tipsy, but it makes it easier to tolerate the snoring, farting, and fucking. (And to tolerate fucking, a man has needs and not everyone is an asshole.) The _Bagne_ was having your ass searched for shit you didn’t have and hearing the guards jeer at the tightness or looseness of the hole.

There was nothing to describe the _Bagne_ and Stan wouldn’t try. Trying to describe it made it seem like there was something better out there and thinking like that just made the days longer. Trying to describe it made morons like Stan think of escape.

 

He is two years into his sentence before he tries to escape. They are removing his shackles after a day of toiling on the naval ships, his chain is still heavy where it scrapes against the dirty stone. He kicks the guard at his feet in the teeth and no one stops him from plunging into the harbor. Between the frigid water and his exhausted body, he nearly drowns and when they drag his sodden body back into the _Bagne_ , he is sent to the _bastonnade_ and then sent to the infirmary; a fever takes him and it is nearly a week before he is discharged back to labor. He is quickly winded and the other men on the chain grumble at his flagging. It takes a month before he is back to what passes for health in the _Bagne_.

 

He is six years into his sentence when he fakes a broken leg and tries to sneak from the infirmary under the guise of a nurse. He gets as far as the gates before someone shouts and he bolts. He manages to lay low for three days, hiding as a vagrant and eating anything he can find. They find him puking his guts out because sometimes when the rich assholes throw it away, it might not be edible. It's another sentence of the _bastonnade_ and this time Stan can bite back the screams until the end. Then it’s back to infirmary. They chain him to the bed even though he gets an infection. They call in a priest who councils him to repent before he dies. He tells the man he’s Jewish (even if he’s given up on God). The priest just drones on from his Bible.

When Stan recovers enough to be released, he's chained to an old man that may as well be a corpse, he's so much dead weight.

Stan is almost smug to hear the curses when he walks back into the yard, definitely not dead. Seeing the scowling faces of convict and guard alike as they trade favors and coins fills him with vindictive glee.

They chain him and his new friend to the sleep pallets at night, though Stan can't get far anyway.

 

After a few months, the old man doesn't wake up one day and they don't find another one to take his place.

 

He’s eleven years into his sentence when he manages to hide in a cart heading to town with a few of the wares the convicts have sold. He is quiet and still for what feels like hours. He feels the cart jerk and pivot sharply to one side and hears the crack of an axle breaking. He has no idea where he is and barely waits for the driver to start cursing his luck when Stan leaps up and runs. Right into a guard. It’s a miracle that the horse didn’t rear and kill him.

The _bastonnade_ has lost its novelty and this time when they flog him, they throw a bucket of sea water on the wounds and throw him into the hall where the rest of the prisoners sleep. He thinks they are hoping he will die. Jokes on them; he’s Stanley-fucking-Pines. When he survives, the cursing is good natured as coin changes hand and some of the convicts even congratulate him on his failed attempt.

 

His sentence has amounted to nineteen years. He accepts this by his twelfth year in the _Bagne_. (He is 29 now and Stan sometimes wonders what Ford has done for those last twelve birthdays.) He keeps his head down, works hard to send home as much money as he can though he doesn’t even know if his family still lives in that shit hole of a fishing village. He still tries and the guards finally, finally relax around him and even his fellow convicts start to joke with him--some of the younger, fresher faces even admire him and his wild escapades. He plays it up, each retelling of his escapes more harrowing and implausible as the last. The men call him out each time and each time Stan gets offended and challenges them to a fight and a scuffle will break out. A crowd will form, bets are placed, and Stan usually comes out on top. Each time he’s punished some way or the other, but the guards go a little easy on him; he breaks up the tedium of Toulon.

Stan is a little infamous for his wild tales and feisty attitude. He becomes famous for his left hook which is almost always how the other man goes down, but what really gets him noticed is his strength. Somehow, Stan has become a goddamn ox. His chain is always the merriest--as well as a chain of convicts hauling logs up and down the pier can be merry. Stan is nearly three men in one, grunting and sweating and pulling his burden along while the rest of his chain puts in the minimum effort. (Stan’s still an asshole, sometimes, and drops the log just to watch the whole chain stagger and yelp under the crushing weight of a dead tree.)

 

Seventeen years into his sentence and Stan has been granted the privilege of education; he is permitted to work in the infirmary, learning the medical trade and nursing poor fools who try to run or start trouble. (If it's a fresh face and young to boot, Stan will sometimes give them advice on how to get the other guy back. Accidents happen, and sometimes Stan’s on the other side to see the fruits of his labor.)

 

Stan has become a respectable citizen and is actually getting paid like a free man might and he still sends every spare _sous_ home. (Though, he might buy a little extra wine from the guards and some meats, the beans have long since lost any flavor and a decade is a long time to go without variety.)

He's lounging in the yard; the waning sun is warm and soft and blurs the hard edges of Toulon. He's tired and sore from a long day of labor and a shift in the infirmary (he might have nicked a few bandages for the new kid, poor guy’s ankle is raw as hell, the chain too heavy for his frail body). He's watching the shadows move across the parapets and his gaze lands on a guard, a new one.

The new guy has caused a stir, a self-righteous asshole who refuses bribes and doesn't drink and nobody's fooled by the guy’s attitude, he's an obvious suck up. Stan watches the man, only a rigid silhouette with the sun at this angle while the other guards lean and lounge. Some superior calls to the man and the silhouette raises a hand and even from this distance Stan can see the strange breadth of the hand. It niggles in the back of his head, a vague recognition that Stan attributes to the lazy doze he's nursing like wine.

He's well and truly dozing when he gets kicked in the ribs.  He jerks awake with a grunt and blinks at the shadow looming above him, fuming.

“You! _Connard_! You screwed me over!” The man goes to kick him again but Stan rolls into a crouch.

“The fuck you going on about?” He snarls up at the man.

“ _Files de pute!_ The damn file was shit; you fucked me!” The man is fuming and Stan can vaguely remember this asshole, a weasel of a bastard with a mean mouth and heavy hands. Stan stands with a grunt.

“Sales are final, buddy.” Stan sneers, ready for the inevitable fight. A crowd is gathering. Well, it was getting dull around here anyway. The man decides to get it started by lunging at Stan and the poor asshole is drunk and Stan easily dodges, watching the man stumble past him with a curse. There are a few gruff laughs from the crowd. Stan smirks, rolls his shoulders, and decides to put on a show.

“Look, pal, I really don't feel like wiping the floor with you, so let's just call it good, eh?” Stan spreads his hands and the other man has found a steady enough stance.

“ _Connasse_.” He snarls and Stan feels his eyebrows raise as the crowd _ohs_ and hisses. Stan pisses the man off further by laughing with a shrug.

“Alright.” And Stan takes the two steps forward and decks the guy in the face. His head snaps back and there's a crunch as either a nose or tooth breaks. The guy cries out and stumbles back, not quite falling. The crowd is jeering and shouting. The man snarls and rushes Stan, who easily slams a fist into his gut and another into the guys kidneys. The man drops and vomits red and beans onto Stan’s shoes and he swears and steps back quickly. He's about to make a wise crack when a hard, solid object slams into his back and Stan goes down, cursing and grunting.

“Oh, come on!”

“I had a _sous_ on that!”

“Dammit, Pines!”

And Stan is confused because no one calls him Pines, that hasn't been his name in years.

“Everyone gathered here is in violation of the governing law and will be duly punished unless they vacate immediately!” That must be the new guard and he sounds familiar, almost. A hand grabs him by the collar and hauls him to his feet. He can see the prisoners scattering and a few guards as well, though two or three are looking down at the man writhing on the ground with amusement. The hand in his collar is broad, as Stan thought, and familiar, somehow familiar. His hands are being bound in cuffs, which is unnecessary, really, no one's gonna give him more than a slap on the wrist for this.  

“Relax, hard ass, no need for the bracelets.” He grumbles and the guard snarls, pushing Stan forward and roughly turning him.

“ _Bagnard_ , you will not address me wi--” Whatever tirade the guy’s about to go off on breaks off with a sharp inhale like a hiss. Stan finally looks at the guys face and realizes several things at once:

The hand bruising his shoulder has six fingers.

Those are Stanford's eyes under the guard’s blue hat.

That's Stanford's mouth slack in shock.

It's Stanford.

Stan is fucked.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stanford becomes an agent of justice.

Grandmother would, when Stanford was crying with bruises and scrapes, kiss every one of his six fingers on each hand and tell him that each corresponded to the points in the Seal of Solomon and that the sixth finger made him wiser than anyone with five. Stanford would let that soothe him and he would pull himself together as she told him one story or another of Solomon’s brilliance, imparting to him as much knowledge as she could. Sometimes Stanley would wonder in and listen, enraptured, as the old woman spun a tale like a tapestry and covered them from world.

Stanford doesn’t cry when Grandmother passes--he knows that though her body is still and empty, she continues on.

Stanford still comes home covered with bruises and cuts, but it’s Stanley who soothes him now, promising justice. It occurs to Stanford that if he is the Seal of Solomon, then Stanley is the Shield of David. Though Stanley is soft and pudgy with more acne than skin, he is a lion that will defend his family, no matter the cost.

That is Stanley’s downfall. His blind self-righteousness.

 

They had all scraped together to get a meager fund for Ford. Father had put aside the odd change of a sale into a jar; anything Mother has left over from going to market and sneaking the boys a few sweets goes into a box. Stanley does his best to run messages for the meager population wealthy enough to hire a _gamin_. (And as he gets older, to Stanford’s dismay, Stanley begins to enter the boxing matches held beneath the docks under the cover of night where the pimps and whores gather and the booze flows freely.) Stanley has a habit of buying Ford books and trinkets on a whim. Some of these Ford keeps; the other’s he trades and pawns and keeps the money behind a loose board under his bed.

When Stanford is at the right age, they pool the money they have saved and it is just enough to get him into a school, to get him out of this fishing village, and eventually bring the rest of the family with him.

Then the baby starts coughing and won’t stop. Mother must stay home and try and soothe the child and she loses the chance to scam the gullible with their fortunes and futures. Stanley is chipper and bright, but Stanford can see the tension around his eyes, the steely set of his shoulders. Stanford knows that Stanley is going to do something reckless but he does not know what and so he can’t stop it.

Stanford’s school fund disappears and Stan shows up with the medicine, grinning like a hero and decked promptly by their father. Father takes the medicine, of course, but shoves Stan out of the door to get the money back. Stanford is furious and hurt; he knows that Stanley only took the money because he was afraid for the baby, but the baby isn’t that sick!

Stan returns a day later with all the coinage he cost them and Father accepts it with a few scathing remarks, but Stanford watches his father leave the house with a dangerous glint in his eye. By the next morning the town is looking for Stanley because the mayor’s son has been robbed. Father rages at his brother and finally throws Stanley from the shack they live in, nothing but the clothes on his broad back. Stanley tries to catch Stanford’s gaze, but Stanford is too numbed by shock to respond.

Stanley runs.

Ford watches his twin brother dragged to his own home in chains even as Ford is shoved into a closet and out of the way. He watches his father deny any relation to Stanley, take the payment for aiding the authorities in the capture of a dangerous person, and Stanford can barely see Stanley’s face make an expression that should break the laws of physics.

 

It's Stanley’s own fault, of course, he couldn't just do things by the book; he always had to find a loophole, a way to bend, if not break, the rules. It was as if he delighted in flaunting the law for no other reason than he could. When they had been younger it had been endearing but as they got older it just became dangerous, drawing unnecessary attention to the Jews with a charlatan mother and freak son.

Now, with Stanley finally bringing the hard hand of the law down on himself, he has ruined everything. Ford is without the funds for an education, he doesn't have the strength to work the docks, and there is no benefit to him working the pawn shop with his father. Their only alternative that serves any benefit is, at Sherman's suggestion, joining the police force. Ford is clever and fast, he would make an honorable officer.

With Sherman's word, Ford is quickly sent the academy. There, he studies the letter of the law, every section, every article. He pours over every book he can find and memorizes all he can. Stanford is scorned by his peers, too serious, too studious, too _strange_. This suits Stanford fine as he finds most of his compatriots dull or vulgar or simply stupid. His superiors, however, are impressed that someone of his stature is so dedicated and he is encouraged and praised, assured that he will quickly rise through the ranks despite his more unfortunate features and circumstances. It grates on Stanford a little, but he knows they mean well enough.

He graduates and is immediately snatched up, patrolling the streets with an odd country hand of a partner who is too lenient, but clever enough that Stanford does not find him unbearable.

Stanford quickly cultivates a reputation for ruthlessness, he is unyielding in the letter of the law. He offers no mercy, no leniency. He is unmoved by shouting, by sobbing, by supplications and excuses. His partner tries to temper his justice, but Stanford is virtuous and his judgement is sound.

(If he considers his motivations, he will admit to himself that he sees his brother in every criminal and perhaps if the law had been firmer his brother would not have ruined his life.)

He is in line for a promotion when he is transferred to Toulon. It is an odd assignment; the majority of the men stationed at Toulon are retired, lazy military looking for a place to whittle their twilight years away--yes, Stanford knew of Toulon. In Toulon, little separates the guards from the beasts of the gallows. They are corrupt and drunkards and Stanford nearly recoils when he is told of his assignment. It is the first time in his decade of working for the police force that he dares to challenge an order. The _Commissaire_ assures him that this relocation is not a punishment. They are aware of Toulon’s sordid reputation and hope that Stanford's presence and his determined adherence to the letter of the law will be a positive influence on the _Bagne_. And, when Stanford is placated but skeptical, he is pulled aside and told that he is to make a weekly report regarding any suspicious activities, especially the traitorous. The last vestiges of doubt are swept deftly away, pride swells warmly in his chest; he holds that warmth close as he travels south to Toulon.

 

He was not wrong about the _Bagne_ of Toulon. The men _, bagnard_ and guard alike, are beasts, filthy and vulgar. They openly and brazenly engage in bribes. A _bagnard_ will start a fight in the yard and the guards on duty will hoot and place wagers on who will emerge victorious. If the fight ends out of a guard's favor, he might curse and drag the losing _bagnard_ to the _bastonnade_.

Stanford’s first letter of report is twenty pages long and the receiving _Commissaire_ regrets his assignment immediately.

Regardless of punishment, the _bagnards_ fight like rabid dogs and the noises they make as he patrols the sleeping hall at night make him sick.

Stanford is not as liberal with his truncheon as some of the other guards. He uses it, of course, but he is disinterested in the vengeance or sport of the overzealous and sadistic execution of beating and lashings--he does not send many a _bagnard_ to the _bastonnade_ ; he finds a quick strike to the knee or lower back cows most of the beasts of Toulon; to remind them of the depravity of their souls and where they lie in the stratum of the justice system.

 

He receives many complaints and the _Commissaire_ of Toulon cautions him weekly to “relax, there is nothing to trouble you here!” If anything, Stanford is more troubled after such meetings and he often writes an additional five pages to his weekly report detailing the frustrations with the management of Toulon. He will record every troubling thing down to the wrinkle around the _Commissaire’s_ wrist cuffs. He never receives any letters to encourage or discourage him, so Stanford continues to record everything he finds in Toulon and report it with clockwork regularity. He even begins to record his findings in a separate journal, in case his letters are misplaced or lost.

 

The sea below Toulon is red as the sun sets. It burns like a vast star and Stanford takes an indulgent moment to admire the sight; to admire the presence of one of the vast and immobile stars spread at his feet. He is smiling, his thoughts soft as he watches the waves crest white and fall orange and red. The _Commissaire_ takes this time to call out to Stanford, breaking his reverie. Stanford turns respectfully.

“Ah, M. Pines! You looked so lost in thought I was loathe to disturb you!” The _Commissaire_ exclaims, arms wide, face beaming. It is unsettling.

“Merely admiring the view.” Stanford says and gestures briefly to the sea before folding his hands behind his back. The _Commissaire_ nods, the poor man is plump and sweaty--Toulon has a fierce reputation, but _bagne_ is like a housecat--capable of lethality but far too lazy.

“I have reviewed your complaint regarding the sleeping arra--” the _Commissaire_ is cut off when a chorus of jeers and shouts sound in the yard. Stanford immediately narrows in on that noise. “Oh, ignore it, the guards have it in hand.” The _Commissaire_ insists but Stanford watches as a clearly inebriated _bagnard_ rushes clumsily at another. The sober man, to his credit, does not end the man there, but he does follow his mercy with a fist to the face and the sound of the crowd has Stanford ignoring his superior and storming down the stairs of the parapet and into the yard. By the time he has pushed through the crowd, the drunken man is a pitiful mess of vomit and agony on the ground. Stanford quickly slams his truncheon into the spine of the standing _bagnard_. He yelps and lands on his hands and knees on the ground. Stanford can hear the hissing of the guards around him and the distant call of the _Commissaire_.

“Everyone gathered here is in violation of the governing law and will be duly punished unless they vacate immediately!” Stanford snarls to the loitering _bagnards_ and guards, alike. They scatter, bitter but cowed as Stanford grabs the _bagnard_ by the collar and hauls the beast to his feet. He does not want to take a chance with this animal inclined to violence and displaying such strength; Stanford promptly clasps the limp arms in shackles, relaxing only a smidge when the _bagnard_ is restrained.

“Relax, hardass, no need for the bracelets.” The _bagnard_ drawls and he sounds almost familiar. It only fuels Stanford’s righteous fury--that such irreverence and insubordination should run unchecked through the _bagne_. When the _bagnard_ is standing and restrained, Stanford grasps the man by the shoulder and wrenches him around.

“ _Bagnard_ , you will not address me wi--” and Stanford falters because, those are his little brother’s eyes. His little brother that has been lost for a decade--having disappeared after his five-year sentence. Stanford feels his air leave his lungs in a hiss. Stanley is looking at him with cocky defiance, then blank shock, and then, finally, fear. The last is what breaks Stanford out of his shock. Stanford feels his face collapse into fury.

“Ah, M. Pines! Thank you for your intervention, but this altercation seems to have been rectified.” The _Commissaire_ jogs up beside Stanford, breathless. Stanley looks dumbstruck. Too shocked to respond. Or fight back.

“Solitary.” It leaves Stanford's mouth before he can think. He watches Stanley's slack face contort into confusion and then horrified betrayal. Stanford takes perverse pleasure in being its cause.

“A scuffle is hardly worth solitary.” The Commissaire scoffs, and he is not wrong.

“A repeat offender, the _bastonnade_ offers no deterrent, why has solitary not been utilized in reforming this man?” Stanford thinks quickly, makes a guess, and the pinch in the _Commissaire’s_ face and Stanley's silent, hurt snarl tell him he is right.

“Ah, that is, there is no real harm.” And Stanford is embarrassed for the _Commissaire_ , the man is not a fit leader, too pliant and yielding.

“I would be willing to discuss the matter at length,” Stanford begins and turns Stanley around; turns that furious, hurt face away from him. “But, M. _Commissaire_ , until a long-term solution can be found for this _bagnard_ ,” Stanford gives a slightly vicious shake of Stanley's whole body via the cuffs at his wrists. “I believe the _Bagne_ will be safer without this animal loose.” The _Commissaire_ is resistant, but he is eventually convinced. Stanford allows another set of guards to drag Stanley to solitary. He does not know who among them is muttering so discontentedly. 

Stanford questions the _Commissaire_ about Stanley: what is his history? “Not much known, just a gutter rat.” What is his sentence? “Theft and attempted escape.” Any recent trespasses? “No, a model citizen. This outburst is so strange.”

Stanford can taste the lies and the truths and it is honestly so like Stan. He is almost nostalgically fond. No, he is in Toulon.

“Permission requested to interview the _bagnard_.” Stanford stands at attention. The _Commissaire_ mutters something unfavorable.

“I see no point, but if it will quell your inquisition, then take your questions to the source.” The _Commissaire_ sighs and Stanford is loath to illicit such a reaction, but he is just and true. He reminds himself: he is just and true. With that, Stanford walks quick and sure to the solitary wing--seldom used and even less patrolled.

Stanley is the only _bagnard_ in the ward, which is perfect. Stanford barks at the young, confused guard at the hall entrance away. The boy scuttles like a spider in sunlight.

Stanford stands before the iron door of the solitary cell, debating how to initiate this long due conversation.

“Well?” Stanley sounds so much the same. The same warmth, the same drawl but older, rougher. “I heard you come in, but you’ve been so shy.” Stanley hesitates and Stanford hears a shuffle of feet. “You don’t strike me as the sort for a bribe, Stanford.” Stanley says and Stanford finally snarls and wrenches the metal door open and lets it slam, unlocked, behind them. If Stanley overcomes him in this, then he is an unworthy guard.

“What on earth are you doing here, Stanley?” Stanford growls, low and dangerous and the sound echoes softly in the small, tight cell. Stanley's arms have been freed and he crosses them while leaning back against a wall.

“Well, some jackass decided a scuffle between friends earned a timeout.” Stanley's blasé attitude only serves to anger Stanford further.

“You know what I mean, Stanley! How did you manage to extend your sentence for over a decade? A decade! How could you have been so foolish?” Stanford is hissing, hand resting on his rapier. Stanley notices the action and stiffens.

“Did some dumb shit, Sixer. I'm different now, ask anyone.” Stanley is not looking at Stanford's face, but the hand in his rapier. Stanford takes a deep breath.

“You are truly a fool if you think I will trust the word of any man in this _bagne_.” He mutters. Stanley has the nerve to laugh, the sound is dry and rough. Its sparks something inside him that Stanford crushes quickly.

“It’s true. Doc even says I'm a decent nurse, could get a job at it when I get out.” Stanford glares at his brother.

“Ah, yes, and when are you to be released? Assuming you don't pull another asinine stunt and add another decade to your sentence.” Stanley rolls his eyes and shrugs.

“Should be another two years.” He says and his nonchalance falters and he suddenly looks vulnerable. “Ford...Ma and Pops...how is everyone?” Of all the things to ask, Stanford did not expect this, though he should have. Stanford sighs.

“They are well, not that you care.” He mutters and Stanley immediately stiffens, shooting forward and dangerously into Stanford's space.

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” He asks, low and dangerous, and Stanford bristles back.

“No letters, no contact? Almost twenty years, Mother thinks you're dead!” Stanford hisses and Stanley pales and then looks furious.

“I've sent letters home every damn month! Every _centime_ I could spare has all gone back to the family!” And it is a good thing that there is no one else around to hear this shouting. Stanford frowns. It has been years since he has seen his brother, but Stanley is displaying none of his bluster, no facade. He is telling the truth.

“Then the letters never arrived.” He says, dismissively. Stanley crumples between rage and despair.

“Ma really thinks I'm dead?” He whispers, sounding so unsure and small. Stanford shakes his head.

“I do not know if the trust will soothe her. Better dead than an unrepentant criminal.” Stanford says to the wall and doesn't see the fist flying until it hits his cheek and knocks his hat off to tumble to the ground. Instinct takes over and Javert’s truncheon whistles through the air and connects to Stanley's side with a whack that has Stanley crying out and crumpling. Stanford follows him down, pinning Stanley to the ground, his face grinding into the filthy floor.

“Assaulting an officer is a serious offense, Stanley.” Stanford snarls into Stanley's ear and the man beneath him thrashes, furious and snarling.

“Screw you, Ford!” Stanford puts more pressure on Stanley's back, hearing his brother wheeze.

“I should honestly whip you myself. These degenerates are clearly incapable of keeping even the meekest of _bagnards_ in line, they have no hope with you.” Stanford muses, surprising himself, feeling calm and almost fond. Stanley is still growling beneath him, but he is no longer struggling. Stanford stands, dusting himself off. Stanley stands as well, still furious. “This display is beneath me. I'm going to recommend keeping you here for three days. After that time, I will be watching you, Stanley. Do not forget.” Stanley looks as if he's about to start another fight, so Stanford exits the cell, locks the door, and walks away. Stanley has the dignity to remain quiet.

 

The _Commissaire_ is unimpressed with his recommendation, but he is intimidated by Stanford and is eventually swayed. Stanley becomes an obsession. Stanford watches him relentlessly. He is no harder on Stanley than he is on the other _bagnards_. His is just and true, he will not be swayed by pettiness--no more than that first day.

The _Commissaire_ is curious about Stanford's zealous quest to watch Stanley, he isn't a significant threat nor is he particularly interesting. He works the gallows with quiet, introspective strength; he is efficient in the infirmary and even manages to be genial. Stanley is a modal _bagnard_ \--on the surface. He is still Stanley. Stanford catches sight of the surreptitious exchanges. The lecherous glances.

Stanford interferes every time. Sometimes Stanley is forced an extra shift in the gallows, sometimes he mucks out the stables or scrubs the infirmary until it's as clean as Toulon will allow. Sometimes he is sentenced to the _bastonnade_ , but that becomes less frequent. Stanford hears the jeers and whispered words. Stanley is harassed for having a guard so obviously infatuated with him. Is he going to pull that stick out of the guard’s ass? Stanley's dick won't fit otherwise.

Stanford interrupts those gossipy little sessions with his truncheon.

 

No one asks if they are related. Perhaps all Jews look the same.

 

Eventually, the two years pass. Stanford is reluctant to release Stanley, but the law has decreed him fit for the public; he has served his numerous sentences. Stanford gives Stanley his yellow ticket himself, eyes hard as he details exactly what it means. Stanley nods, eyes a little sad, a little hopeful. When Stanford has finished, Stanley gets a little sheepish and pulls a tin from his rucksack and hands it to Stanford. Stanford takes it, a rusty, filthy tin that once held salted meat. He feels his brows furrow.

“What is this?” Stanley rubs the back of his neck, smiling ruefully.

“I know it doesn’t make up for school and everything, but,” Stanley shrugs, that sad look in his eyes making him soft despite his _bagnard_ haggardness. “Can you make sure this actually gets to Ma and Pops this time?” Stanford frowns at the tin, opens it and is surprised to find a sizable sum of money.

“This is legally gained?” Stanford asks, eyes narrowed. Stanley rolls his eyes and Stanford bites back a remark about disrespecting an officer of the law.

“Yes, Stanford, you can even check with records.” He crosses his arms, raising an eyebrow at Stanford’s skeptical scowl.

“Very well,” He relents, tucking the tin under his arm. They stand in a tense silence until Stanford clears his throat. “I have duties to attend to and you would do well to find gainful employment as soon as possible.” Stanford draws himself straight, smooths his face, and marches away from Stanley and the whole affair. He is an agent of justice and there are _bagnards_ that need his hand.

 

Stanford is furious when Stanley runs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filbrick has gathered every centime Stan has sent home and has told no one.

**Author's Note:**

> The baby almost got pneumonia. No one knows that, though.
> 
> I hate myself for starting this project when I have others going on, but I couldn't fight this feeling anymore.
> 
> The stupid picture that started it at:  
> https://steampunch.tumblr.com/post/161216470755/so-crunch-time-at-the-studio-is-kicking-my-butt


End file.
